Golfer, Ghosts & Glamour – A Changi Confession

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🎬 Golfer, Ghosts & Glamour – A Changi Confession

Changi Airport, Singapore — the unofficial United Nations of layovers. I was marooned at Gate C34 thanks to a mysterious "technical delay" that airlines announce with the same expression you'd use for a missing umbrella. My wife, Madhuri, had drifted away into the glittery forest of duty-free stores. Perfume testers, scarves, ceramic mugs—anything but what we actually needed.

I settled down with a kopi o kosong and opened my Desh magazine. That’s when he entered my life—like a character in one of my short stories who doesn't knock, just appears and makes the story move.

A slim young man with a disheveled man-bun, red-rimmed glasses, and a T-shirt that read “Make Cinema, Not Excuses” flopped beside me with dramatic exhaustion. He held a Starbucks cup and a laptop covered with festival stickers like Dhaka Shorts ’22 and Cannes Rejects Anonymous.

“Bengali, sir?” he asked, eyeing the Desh.

I nodded. He smiled. And with that, my peaceful layover morphed into a pitch meeting.

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🎥 Dipak the Dreamer

His name was Dipak, but he preferred “D. Sen.”

“Short, punchy, like Ray or Nolan,” he said. “You must become a brand, sir, before the world gives you a budget.”

He was returning from Singapore, triumphantly clasping a verbal promise of ₹20 lakhs from two IT engineers with deep pockets and shallow cinema knowledge.

“Once I have 40, I start shooting,” he beamed. “It’s a noir-thriller. Bit of ghost, bit of revenge, social commentary woven in. Set in Kolkata. Very rain-washed. Monochrome filters. And one slow Rabindra Sangeet track played on saxophone.”

He spoke like he was already walking the red carpet.

I felt the itch, that secret fantasy of mine—that one of my short stories would one day leap onto the silver screen. I casually mentioned I’d written a few.

He pounced.

“Sir! Let me use one of them. As a flashback. A pivotal incident! I’ll montage it like Nolan but rooted. Grounded. Bengali.”

I leaned in. “If I pitch in with ₹5 lakhs, what do I get?”

He looked around dramatically and whispered like a man offering a banned substance.

“If your funds are a little… ahem… grey, we’ll return it shiny and white. Also, I’ll cast you. Or better—your whole golf group! I'll write a golf scene into the script. Like Srijit did in Zulfiqar.”

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🎬 Bengali Bollywood Budgeting

I was curious.

“Hero? Heroine? Who’s acting in this?”

He sipped his latte. “Sir, these days heroes pay to become heroes. I know a couple of rich Bengali kids with six-packs and no jobs.”

“Heroine?”

“Modeling girls. Very camera-friendly. Also pitching in.”

“Character actors?”

“Faded TV stars. 2,000–3,000 rupees per day. They just want work and fish cutlets.”

“Crew? Lights? Sound? Editing?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Sir, the industry’s starving. Crews are sitting idle. You offer chai and a meal, they’ll shoot a dream sequence at midnight.”

“And special effects?”

“I’ve got a friend in Bangalore. IT guy. Worked on a Hollywood VFX project. He made a pigeon explode for a Malayalam movie. He’ll help with my ghost golf ball.”

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🦸 Then Came Malegaon

I raised an eyebrow. “You sound confident. But do you really think people will watch this?”

He lit up. “Sir! Have you seen Supermen of Malegaon?”

“Of course! Those Malegaon boys made a Superman parody using bamboo sticks and dupattas.”

He slapped the table with joy, almost spilling his coffee.

“Exactly, sir! No training, no studio, no nothing—just dreams. They made magic with mosquito nets and car horns. If they could make people laugh and cry with one lakh, then why can’t I make a noir ghost thriller with forty?”

He leaned in like a director giving a final shot instruction:
“Sir, Malegaon gave us hope. I have WiFi, passion, and a VFX guy. What else do I need?”

I said, “Luck. And maybe another ₹15 lakhs.”

He nodded solemnly. “That too.”

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🧳 Back to Reality

Just then, Madhuri returned with a bag of suspiciously expensive Singaporean biscuits and that all-knowing look wives carry like a handbag.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“Just someone I met,” I said coolly. “He was explaining GST.”

She squinted. Dipak faded away like a skilled junior artist, blending into the crowd near the noodle counter.

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🕳️ Epilogue: Or Was It a Prologue?

Back home, a WhatsApp popped up from an unknown number: a digital poster that read:

🎬 Ghorer Bhut Golf Khele
A noir thriller by D. Sen
Starring Raja Roy as “The Swinging Spirit”
Coming soon (pending funding)

I showed it to my golfing buddies—Jaggi, Sikka, Paul. They laughed for five minutes straight. Then Paul leaned over and said,

“Oye Roy, you think they’ll cast me as the caddy ghost if I pitch in ten lakhs?”

Ah, cinema dreams. Once it bites, even spirits start queuing for auditions.

From Flat White to Flat Cushions: Musings from Australia While Missing Kolkata

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“From Flat Whites to Flat Cushions: Musings from Australia While Missing Kolkata

My IIT batchmate Himanshu, always the practical voice of reason, reminded me recently: “Enjoy the pollution-free air and blue sky of Australia while you can—once you return to Kolkata, it’ll be muggy skies and auto exhaust.”
That comment stuck with me.
And so, instead of getting offended, I got inspired. I sat down with a flat white in hand, stared out at the impossibly blue Queensland sky—and penned this little tribute to the chaos I love, the mess I miss, and the madness that makes Kolkata feel like home.

It’s 7:15 a.m. in Upper Coomera, Australia. The kookaburras are laughing outside my window, the sky is perfectly blue, the traffic is polite, and the air smells faintly of eucalyptus and organic floor cleaner.

And me?
I’m sitting on a Scandinavian-designed ergonomic chair with lumbar support, sipping a flat white, and missing my old, rusty bed in Kolkata like it’s a long-lost friend.

Not the memory foam mattress here that judges me for every turn—but my creaky, no-nonsense wooden bed with a hump in the middle. The kind that doubles up as a musical instrument when you shift position. You don’t sleep on that bed—you negotiate.

And oh, my high-cushioned sofa, positioned like a throne in front of the TV back home. The kind of sofa that swallows you whole, along with any plans of being productive. It's probably still bearing the exact imprint of my body, slightly concave, slightly wise.

I miss my worn-out clothes—those once-black now-gray T-shirts that have retired from public service and live full-time in my cupboard. They smell faintly of naphthalene, childhood, and a vague trace of aftershave from the 90s.

Out here, every third person looks like they’ve stepped out of a wellness brochure. Back in Kolkata, my neighbourhood uncle in a faded banyan and lungi still commands more respect than a CEO in Crocs.

And yes, let me not forget the sky.

Out here in Australia, the sky is blue. Not metaphorically—actually blue.
It’s unsettling.
In Kolkata, the sky has character. Layers. Drama. Suspense. A mysterious greyish hue that changes based on how many autos, bikes, and unlicensed buses have passed in the last ten minutes.

The sounds—I miss those too.
The soundscape of Kolkata isn’t just noise. It’s a symphony of survival.

A sharp horn, a shouted “O Dada!”, the soulful wheeze of a rickety rickshaw, a sudden “Inquilab Zindabad!” from a protest procession, and somewhere in the distance, a vendor’s “Dimpoooriiiii!” stretching longer than an autorickshaw’s brake line.

And then there’s the smell—oh, the smell. Not eucalyptus and lavender-scented laundry. No sir.
I mean the shifting aroma kaleidoscope that is Kolkata.
Step out and it begins: car exhaust, old newspaper ink, then suddenly—a whiff of frying fish or someone’s magical chicken roll in progress.
Walk ten steps further and it's someone brewing coffee in an ancient steel kettle with dents that have witnessed history.

Out here, people walk by in silence, holding hands like elegant wallpaper ads.
And then, I see a couple doing the same in Kolkata! On a footpath! In the chaos! I smile.
Maybe we aren’t that different after all.
But yes, every single one of them is looking down at a mobile phone.
That’s one thing humanity has agreed on, like gravity.

Of course, I miss my adda.
Those long, entirely pointless, extremely essential conversations at Tolly Club, with Sikka, Anantada and Jaggi over sada dosa and cappuccino after a round of golf. We never solved world hunger or climate change, but we certainly discussed it, between bites.

I miss my walks around the lake, bumping into Ashok Ghose or Santanu Sur, exchanging two-line conversations about rain, politics, or cricket—followed by warm smiles and tiny nods that said, “We’ve seen things, haven’t we?” or listening to Ashok Ghose ' s soulful vouce " woh sham kuch ajeeb thi... ".

Back in Kolkata, I go to office—not just to work, but to pass on what I know to the juniors, while sneakily learning what's new from them. It’s a fair exchange. They get war stories, I get WhatsApp tips.

And let’s not forget my housing society.
Where fixing a water pump is a crisis worthy of national news, and keeping the old lift running requires the diplomacy of the UN, the patience of Gandhi, and the electrical knowledge of Tesla.
But it works. Somehow. Through jugaad, prayers, and the magic touch of Ramesh, our part-time electrician, full-time philosopher.

And then there's Maa’s Kitchen.

Ah, that glorious mess of flavors, smells, and raised voices. Where every table is a theatre stage and every waiter deserves an honorary psychology degree. Where I once sat, quietly enjoying my kosha mangsho, and watched the Chatterjee family wage war over chili chicken vs. ilish bhapa, while Bapi the bearer scribbled down everyone’s conflicting orders like he was decoding a treasure map.

Maa’s Kitchen, with its wobbling fan, peeling cinema posters, and menu older than some ministers, is still my favorite restaurant in the world.

Not because of the food alone—but because it is noisy, chaotic, alive.

Just like Kolkata.
Just like home.

And so, as I look out this morning across the manicured lawns, watching another kangaroo hop past like it’s late for a meeting, I remind myself:
Next week, I fly back.
Back to my messy, magical, magnificent city,
where the dosa is crisp, the beds squeak, the roads yell, and the heart is always full

Tandoori Time Travel From Panipat to Australia

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“Tandoori Time Travel: From Panipat to Australia, One Chicken Leg at a Time”

“Baba, it’s your last Saturday in Australia. What do you want for dinner?”

That question came from my son Anish—IT-enabled solar power expert by profession, but at heart, a five-star chef disguised in an apron with attitude.

I didn’t blink. “Tandoori Chicken. The one you make on that contraption that looks like a barbecue but behaves like a Vedic yajna setup.”

And so it began: marination, skewering, that sizzle, the aroma wafting like an old friend tiptoeing back into memory.

I poured myself a glass of rum with hot water, settled into the chair under the Australian sky—blue, smug, and mosquito-free—and took a bite.

And that’s when it hit me.

Boom! 1978. Panipat. BHEL.

I’m in my 30s again. Back from Indian Oil Corporation, full of voltage and vision, posted to commission the 2×110 MW thermal power station of Haryana Electricity Board.

We lived in Panipat New Township—a dusty, dreamy setup where the tea was strong, the gossips stronger, and the fans turned even when the power didn’t.

But Saturdays, ah… those were sacred.

Every Saturday evening was booze night. Not a party. Not a get-together. It was an institution, complete with standard operating procedure, democratically run by our friend Late Gurdeep Singh—the only bachelor among us.

Gurdeep was our self-declared bartender, chef, treasurer, DJ (without any music), and emotional counsellor—depending on how far along the Old Tavern you were.

Our group had Late Kandaswamy—a gentle, wise Tamilian whose whisky intake was directly proportional to his storytelling in broken Hindi;

Lenin—yes, that was his real name, and no, he was not remotely Marxist in drinking habits;

And then, of course, me—the only member who brought along a 4-year-old assistant named Anish, tucked under one arm like a lunchbox.

The protocol was simple:

₹50 per head.

₹10 if you’re under 4 feet and eating only the chicken.

No questions asked.

Gurdeep does everything.

We called it: “Give 50 bucks to Gurdeep and forget about it.”

And honestly, we did. Gurdeep never disappointed.

The menu? Unchanging:

Rosy Pelican beer in the summers (₹5 a bottle—cheaper than peanuts today).

Old Tavern or any other Solan-based sorcery in winter.

Tandoori chicken, ₹5 per whole, marinated in turmeric, red chili, lemon, and mild anxiety about salmonella.

The setting: folding chairs, a cracked transistor blaring Lata Mangeshkar, and one mosquito coil valiantly losing to the entire insect population of Haryana.

Anish, all of four, would gobble tandoori chicken with alarming professionalism. He would sit by my side  with a leg piece in one hand and throw in the occasional one-liner, which, frankly, had more bite than the chicken.

“Uncle Lenin,” he once said, “why are you laughing when your glass is empty?”

Or, “Baba, why is that chicken leg on Gurdeep Uncle’s head?”

Gurdeep didn’t flinch. He always said, “Beta, tension mat lo. This is called garnishing.”

We’d talk shop—

—how to commission the turbine without tripping the generator;

—how Shamnani, our short-tempered Site Incharge, could reach 400°C before the boiler did;

—how Manocha, the self-declared welding guru, once corrected a welder’s angle with a scale and then blamed the welder when it cracked;

—how the Ranga-Billa case had everyone scared, though we couldn’t tell if we were more afraid of them or of the canteen's mutton curry.

Sometimes, we just sat quietly, watching Gurdeep dance around the tandoor like a kathakali artist with a skewer.

One night, when the beer count crossed into double digits, Kandaswamy solemnly declared, “We must all buy shares in Gurdeep.”

We laughed for ten minutes.

Next morning, Gurdeep increased chicken prices to ₹6 and blamed it on inflation.

That was life.

No swiping, no scrolling, just chicken, banter, and bonding.

And now, back in Australia, Anish placed a steaming plate of tandoori chicken in front of me—red, smoky, glistening.

I took a bite. Tender, perfectly spiced, crisp at the edges.

And suddenly—he was four again, licking his fingers.

Gurdeep was yelling, “Bas karo yaar! Only two legs per person!”

Lenin was laughing at nothing, and I was 30, full of dreams and chicken grease.

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Maybe you do fly across the world.

Maybe life gives you solar panels and sky-high airfares.

But one tandoori bite, and you’re right back to ₹50 evenings, folding chairs, and friends who never left.

Cheers to rum, chicken, and memory circuits that never trip.

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Despatch from Australia

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“Another Raj Incident?” – Musings on Desis Down Under
By S. N. Roy

Every time I return to Australia, I notice that the Indian footprint has grown — not just in size, but in visibility. You see it in the long queues at Indian grocery shops, the aroma of sambhar mixing with sarson da saag, and of course, in the unmistakable presence of Indian accents at every second corner. But this year, something stood out more than usual.

The desi presence has become… tactile. Trolleys pushed at Coles? Indian. Garbage bins wheeled in rhythm? Indian. Car washes with bhangra beats in the background? Also Indian.

But the intrigue truly began with Piyush.

The Curious Case of Mr. Piyush

One afternoon, while my wife went veggie shopping, I sat peacefully with my cappuccino — a habit I’ve developed to help caffeine and curiosity coexist. Behind me, two men were speaking in Hindi. Naturally, I turned. (At my age, subtlety is optional.)

One was a Nepali, who’s been manning the veggie shelves for ten years. The other was pushing a garbage bin with such precision, you'd think he had a GPS installed in his shoes.

I struck up a chat.

“How many days in Australia?” I asked.

He laughed, “Not days, uncle. Thirty years.”

“What’s your name?”

“Piyush.”

A twinkle appeared in my eye. “Then your surname must be… Goyal! Like the cabinet minister?”

He roared with laughter and said, “Nahi uncle, main sirf bin minister hoon.”

I must admit, the resemblance to Tamil comedian Yogi Babu in the recent hit film Ace added to the fun. In that film, Yogi plays a garbage collector in Kuala Lumpur with hidden wisdom and sharp wit. Just like this Piyush — perhaps a philosopher in fluorescent overalls.

Jatland Down Under: The Gaddi Files

Later that week, we made friends with the Gaddis — a jovial Punjabi couple. Mr. Gaddi is a retired Military Engineering Services officer, full of old war stories, loud laughs, and louder opinions. Their son, an IT engineer, now works from home and owns a neat unit in Upper Coomera. He codes by day and barbecues by evening — all made possible partly by Mr. Gaddi’s retirement fund and completely by Mrs. Gaddi’s aloo parathas.

The Gaddis, like many Indian families here, have blended in comfortably. They represent the rare, balanced migratory tale — where roots are intact and routes are smart.

The Silent Lives of Many

But not everyone has it this smooth. Many youngsters from Punjab, Haryana, and even Nepal land up here via student visas or migration consultancies. Their parents, mostly prosperous farmers or traders, fund these journeys — ₹30–40 lakhs, with hopes pinned like medals on their chests.

The destination? Australia.

The reality? Driving Uber, pushing trolleys, stacking shelves.

Now, there’s no shame in honest labour. In fact, a garbage collector here earns more respect (and dollars) than an average office clerk in India. But one wonders — did they migrate for this, or was the dream lost somewhere at a red light?

Social media often mocks Indian truck drivers here with the slang “Another Raj incident” when accidents happen. It’s a bit racist, yes — but also a reminder that integration is still incomplete. Their English needs polish, civic behaviour some guidance — but their intent is pure and their backs strong.

Library, Walks, and Rebus

Meanwhile, I’ve found my own rhythm in Upper Coomera — staying mostly with our son’s family. Every morning, my wife and I take our walk to the community centre, 1.5 kilometres away. It's our ritual. There, at the library, we meet people from all over the world — Chinese grandmothers, South African toddlers, European retirees. But strangely, never any Indians. Perhaps they are too busy coding, cleaning, or driving trucks.

As for me, the library is my temple. Books are my prayers.

The last one I read was The Final Curtain by Keigo Higashino — a subtle, suspenseful farewell. Now I’m engrossed in Midnight and Blue by Ian Rankin. I’ve always been a fan of Inspector Rebus — the only detective who can out-stubborn a Scotchman and out-think a whisky.

I often joke that books are keeping me alive — they engage the mind, stir the soul, and politely ignore my aging knees. While others count calories or steps, I count chapters.

Final Thoughts

Australia is a kaleidoscope of cultures — where dreams meet dustbins and destinies collide at coffee shops. Whether it’s Piyush the garbage collector or Mr. Gaddi’s son in IT, each has a story, a struggle, and a smile.

As for me, I’ll keep sipping my cappuccino, keep reading my books, and keep writing my thoughts — because as long as there are stories, life refuses to retire.

– S. N. Roy
Upper Coomera, July 2025

Chasing dreams Catching vibes

**A Rip Van Winkle in Australia: Juggling Time, Food, Grandkids, and Dreams with a Dash of Nostalgia**

When I touchdown in Australia to visit my son’s family, I slip into a peculiar state—a modern-day Rip Van Winkle, caught between time zones, cultures, and the whirlwind of my grandchildren’s antics. It’s a charming disarray, like waking up in a new era with Ameen Sayani’s voice still echoing in my ears. Life Down Under calls for flexibility, and I embrace it with a book in hand, a quirky vowel game, and Google Home as my nostalgic lifeline. Here’s how I navigate this Australian adventure, sprinkled with humor and a hearty dose of reminiscence.

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Food: Sadhguru’s Wisdom and Tasmanian Simplicity

The first challenge is food. In India, my kitchen hums with Bengali delights—ilish maach, cholar dal, and mishti that could seduce a monk. But in Australia, I channel Sadhguru’s advice: “Indians eat like it’s their final feast. One-third is plenty!” He’s not wrong. During a biting Tasmanian winter, I thrived on bread, butter, and eggs—a minimalist meal that felt like a culinary sonnet. So, I skip the craving for elaborate curries and settle for rustle-up fare: avocado toast, a quick pasta, or whatever my daughter-in-law tosses together. It’s freeing, like swapping a woolen shawl for a light summer scarf.

As Mark Twain quipped, “Too much of anything is bad, but too much of good whiskey is barely enough.” I’d say the same to food—too much weighs you down, but just enough leaves space for life’s sweeter moments.

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 Time: Books, Grandkids, and a Game of Vowels

If food fuels the body, time is my canvas. In Australia, managing it is the real task, but my books are a trusty ally. Reading is my time machine, making hours dissolve like sugar in tea. Reading is my time machine—whether it’s a tattered classic or a fresh thriller. But my immersion is often hijacked by Isha, my four-year-old granddaughter, a pint-sized attention seeker. With her impish smirk, she insists on “horsey” rides or tales of chatty kangaroos. I cave, because resisting a toddler tyrant is futile.

Then there’s Veer, my eight-year-old grandson, as restless as a cricket fan during a rain delay. To keep him occupied, I devised the Vowel Game. I throw him a letter—say, A—and he responds with a word containing two vowels, like “apple” or “aura.” I give him B, he fires back “bubble.” By Z, he’s tossing out “zebra” and “zombie” with the zeal of a quiz show champ. It’s a hoot, sharpening my English and his quick thinking. As Oscar Wilde noted, “Many lack the originality to lack originality.” Veer, bless him, is brimming with it.

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 Dreams and Drives: Bonding with Shuddy

And then there’s Shuddy, our eldest grandson, teetering on the brink of adulthood. At 17, he’s a dreamer with his eyes on the horizon, eager to slide behind the wheel of a jalopy he’s saving for with his weekend gig as a salesperson. Over cups of tea, he shares his ambitions—plans for uni, career ideas, and the thrill of owning his first car. I listen, marveling at his drive (pun intended), though I secretly worry about that jalopy’s reliability. “Shuddy,” I tease, “make sure it’s got more horsepower than my old bicycle back in Kharagpur!”

I try peeking into his iPad to grasp his school subjects, but it’s like deciphering an alien script. The education system has leapfrogged since my 1950s schooling—another Rip Van Winkle moment. Back then, calculus was the peak of academic peril; now, Shuddy’s juggling coding, AI ethics, and quantum something-or-other. I nod sagely, but it’s clear I’m out of my depth. Still, these chats with him are precious, a bridge between my past and his future. As Kahlil Gibran said, “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.” Shuddy’s longing is loud and clear, and I’m cheering him on.

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 Nostalgia: Ameen Sayani’s Timeless Spell

When jet lag or homesickness nudges me, and my brain flips between Indian and Australian clocks, I turn to Google Home, my digital djinn. “Play Binaca Geetmala by Ameen Sayani,” I command, and suddenly, the room glows with the golden voice of the legendary host, spinning Bollywood hits from the 1950s. It’s more than music—it’s a portal. I’m back in my school days, glued to the radio every Wednesday at 8 PM, soaking in Sayani’s charm.

The nostalgia peaks when I recall my IIT Kharagpur years (1960–65). My friend Y.C. Puri, the proud owner of a transistor in Patel Hall, was the Wednesday king. I’d invade his room, sprawl on his bed, and let Binaca Geetmala’s melodies—“Yeh Raat Bheegi Bheegi” or “Mera Joota Hai Japani”—carry me away. In Australia, I shut my eyes, and for a fleeting second, I’m that 20-year-old again, dreaming big in a hostel room. This is my Rip Van Winkle spell—waking in a new land, a new age, yet cradling the past. As Washington Irving wrote, “He had been sleeping for twenty years, and the world had changed around him.” My slumber is brief, but the shift feels just as profound.

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The Invisible Sphere: My Portable Sanctuary

Unlike some who seek out old friends or recreate Little Indias abroad, I don’t chase what was. I carry an invisible sphere—a cocoon of habits, memories, and joys that makes any place home. Books, the Vowel Game, Isha’s giggles, Veer’s wit, Shuddy’s dreams, and Ameen Sayani’s voice are all tucked inside. This sphere is my compass, proof that a change of geography doesn’t rattle the heart. Pico Iyer put it best: “We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves.” In Australia, I find myself in the familiar, even amid the new.

So here I am, a Bengali Rip Van Winkle, juggling time zones, grandkids, and nostalgia with a chuckle. Life in Australia is a whimsical ride, and I’m all in—whether it’s cheering Shuddy’s jalopy dreams, dodging Isha’s mischief, or outsmarting Veer at vowels. Now, if you’ll pardon me, Isha’s demanding a kangaroo tale, and Shuddy’s probably eyeing another car ad. Somewhere, Ameen Sayani waits to whisk me back to the 1960s.

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Footnote: Binaca Geetmala

Binaca Geetmala was an iconic Indian radio program broadcast on Radio Ceylon (later All India Radio) from 1952 to 1994, hosted by the legendary Ameen Sayani. Aired every Wednesday at 8 PM, it featured a countdown of the week’s top Bollywood songs, chosen based on record sales and listener requests. Sponsored by Binaca toothpaste, the show became a cultural touchstone, enchanting millions with Sayani’s warm, engaging style and hits like “Awara Hoon” (1951) and “Chaudhvin Ka Chand” (1960). At its zenith in the 1950s and 60s, it was a household ritual, uniting families around radios and shaping India’s musical legacy.

Sapner Boi

Sapner Boi 

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Sapner Boi

(Dream Book)

I was combing through College Street in the muggy March light of 2015, chasing a ghost—the first-edition set of Srikanta, all four parts, by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay.

My quest for old books has always had an air of pilgrimage. As a schoolboy, I had scoured the pavements of Ajmal Khan Road in Karol Bagh, sniffing out dusty treasures. Later, I rummaged through the bookstalls of Gariahat, and even Darjeeling, where musty cartons lay half-forgotten under the misty mountain sun. But College Street—Boi Para, the Mecca of books—that was different. Here, I was chasing both a title and a memory.

It was while turning away from a glossy modern bookstore that I saw it—tucked between a crumbling sweet shop and a digital Xerox centre: a faded stall with a hand-painted board that read: Sapner Boi.

“Dream Book,” I chuckled to myself. It looked anything but dreamy—old wooden shelves sagging under the weight of memory, cloth covers fraying at the edges, and a crooked umbrella keeping out the sun. But something pulled me in.

A bespectacled old man, white-haired and smiling, waved me over.
“Babu, ki khujchen?”

I told him about Srikanta.
He didn’t bother to check the stacks. “Nai,” he said calmly. “But wait…”

From a shelf behind him, he pulled out a treasure: a first edition of Devdas, also by Sarat Chandra. My breath caught. I ran my fingers along its faded cloth spine, the pages yellowed, the type faint.

“I’m Narayan Bose,” he said. “The stall’s mine. Since long before Café Coffee Day came to this lane.”
He gestured to a battered wooden stool. I sat, and stories poured.

I told him about my book-hunting adventures—Ajmal Khan, Gariahat, Darjeeling, even a long-lost Russian novel I’d once found in a tea shop. He laughed and said, “You must be waiting for a magic book to find you.”

Then, almost casually, he pointed to a stack of handmade graphic stories. The covers were plain, stitched with thread. Inside: hand-drawn comics—Tintin in unfamiliar territories, teamed with Feluda, no less. The drawings were meticulous, filled with Bengali wit and a child’s wonder.

“Not for sale,” he said firmly, almost protectively.

Just then, a little whirlwind swept in. A girl of about nine, with oversized spectacles, jeans, a bright yellow top, and a backpack weighed down with imagination. She pulled out a handmade graphic notebook and handed it to Narayan Babu.

“This is Mishka,” he said. “Bengali father, Malayali mother. Shifted from Bangalore recently. Walked in one morning and began sorting my books.”

She glanced up at me, curious but not shy. The notebook she’d brought was a graphic story based on Jayant and Manik, my own childhood favourites by Hemendra Kumar Roy. Her illustrations were detailed, humorous, alive.

“She shares these with kids in the nearby slum,” Narayan Babu added. “And when customers come with children, she keeps them busy with her books. She's... part of the shop now.”

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A Decade Later

In May 2025, I was back in College Street to visit my publisher, Abhijan, when I felt an urge—more instinct than intention—to revisit Sapner Boi.

The stall stood there still. The signboard had been repainted but retained its old-world charm. The familiar smell of old paper mingled with the scent of brewed coffee, drifting from a CCD dispenser neatly installed in the corner.

Narayan Bose sat like an aging banyan tree—frail, eyes watery, hands trembling but warm. He remembered me.

“Devdas, 2015,” he said, smiling.

And there stood Mishka, now a young woman—taller, confident, still wearing slightly oversized glasses. The stall had evolved under her care. A small chalkboard listed storytelling sessions every two hours. A few benches and cushions were scattered around, and subtle background music played softly—piano notes, gentle and emotive.

I stayed for the 2 PM session. Mishka began reading from A Gentleman in Moscow. Her voice was steady, lyrical—each sentence spoken like a musical note. As Count Rostov paced the corridors of the Metropol, Satie’s Gymnopédies floated in the background. She had paired the reading with music so perfectly, it felt like watching the novel unfold on an invisible stage.

When she finished, no one moved. The stillness said everything.

I left quietly but not empty-handed. I bought a copy of Keigo Higashino’s The Final Curtain from the shelf—a little something for the flight ahead.

---

Epilogue

Before leaving for Australia, I had asked Samaranand to stay in touch with Narayan Babu—and, indirectly, with Mishka. I passed along a list of Bengali and English children’s books I wanted him to buy from Sapner Boi from time to time—ostensibly for the books, but really so that Samaranand could keep a gentle eye on her well-being through Babulal and Soumya.

In truth, I had grown fond of her—drawn by her spirit, her imagination, her strange, beautiful world of drawings and dreams.

During my last visit, Narayan Babu shared with quiet pride that Mishka was now studying English Literature, pursuing a B.A. Honours degree.

That little girl who once stitched together Tintin and Feluda in a notebook was now walking steadily into the world of letters—book by book, story by story.

And Sapner Boi, the Dream Book, continued to shelter them both!

Travelogue: A Chilly, Chuckle-Filled Chase Through Tasmania’s Wilds

**Travelogue: A Frosty, Furry Fiasco at Brady’s Lake**

On June 16, 2025, our intrepid trio—my wife Madhuri (the queen of packing snacks), son Anish, and I—hopped a Jetstar flight from Brisbane, touching down in Hobart, Tasmania, by 10 a.m. The winter air hit us like we’d walked into a giant freezer with a personal grudge, a nippy 10°C. Travelers, heed this: leave your apples and carrots behind unless you want Hobart Airport’s sniffer dogs to give you a starring role in their next bust. Those floppy-eared enforcers don’t mess around!

At the airport, we sidestepped the car rental royalty—Hertz, Avis, Budget, all acting like they’re leasing Lamborghinis—and went with Bargain Car Hire. Anish, our family’s deal-hunting ninja, scored us a car that looked like it had survived a zombie apocalypse but drove like a champ. Our mission? Reach Brady’s Lake, where Anish and his wife Poonam had snagged a lakeside investment property, marked by a “Hakuna Matata” sign that practically sang *The Lion King* theme song. First, though, we raided Coles in Hobart for bread, biscuits, eggs, and enough snacks to survive a siege. Why? Because the nearest shop to Brady’s Lake is probably in Narnia. A quick chai or coffee run? Forget it—you’d have better luck convincing a koala to brew you a latte.

After a KFC pit stop—because nothing screams “wilderness adventure” like a bucket of fried chicken—Anish took the wheel for the 3.5-hour drive. Tasmania’s landscapes were a jaw-dropper: meadows so green they looked like they’d been painted by a toddler with a lime crayon obsession, dotted with sheep that probably had their own Instagram accounts. Rolling hills stood like silent bouncers, daring us to question their majesty. Hobart’s local radio station was our wingman, blasting everything from Midnight Oil to Billie Eilish, with a DJ yammering like he’d mainlined espresso. We half-expected him to warn, “Watch out for that wallaby doing cartwheels on the highway!” The meadows morphed into national reserve forests, where eucalyptus trees loomed like they were auditioning for a Tolkien flick. Signs cautioned about wallabies, koalas, and ice skids—because nothing says “welcome” like the threat of spinning out while a marsupial photobombs your crash.

Our first wildlife encounter came early. A wallaby, looking like it had overslept for a meeting, hopped across the road with the nonchalance of a teenager crossing a mall parking lot. Anish slammed the brakes, and we all cooed like we’d spotted a celebrity. “Look at that fluffy daredevil!” Madhuri squealed, snapping blurry pics through the windshield. Further along, a koala clung to a tree, staring us down like we’d interrupted its nap. “Mate, take a chill pill,” I muttered, half-expecting it to flip us off. These critters were just a warm-up for the zoo that awaited us.

We stopped at Ouse, a village so small it probably shares a Wi-Fi password with the next town over. We grabbed coffee at a cafe that looked like it was stuck in 1850, half-hoping for a barista in a monocle. Refreshed, we dove back into the forest, chasing Tasmania’s 4 p.m. sunset like we were in a budget remake of *Mad Max*. We pulled up to Brady’s Lake just before dusk, the thermometer laughing at us with a frosty 6°C and a wind so sharp it could shave a yeti. But there it was: the “Hakuna Matata” house, glowing like a warm muffin with a wood fire crackling inside.

**The House by Brady’s Lake**

This house was pure fairy-tale vibes, a wooden gem that looked like it had wandered out of a Brontë novel and decided to kick back by the lake. Its giant glass windows framed Brady’s Lake like a 4K nature documentary, complete with misty waters and forested hills. The wood fire was the MVP, snapping and popping like it was roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories. Huddling around it felt like we’d gone full pioneer—minus the dysentery and questionable hygiene. The smoky scent made us feel like rugged bushfolk, even if my idea of “roughing it” is usually a hotel without room service. We spent the evening defrosting, sipping hot drinks, and cackling about how we’d have to ration the biscuits since the nearest shop was a pipe dream. The electric bed warmers were our saviors, turning our beds into toasty burritos. Without them, we’d have woken up as popsicles with regrets.

**Exploring Brady’s Lake**

Brady’s Lake, tucked in Tasmania’s Central Highlands, is a stunner that doesn’t play nice with city slickers. The lake, a hydro reservoir, looks like it was crafted by a deity with a flair for drama, its glassy surface ringed by hills and meadows. On June 17, I braved the drizzle for a walk, expecting a bustling hamlet. Nope. The place was deader than a dodo’s dance party. Coming from India, where “quiet” means only 100 autorickshaws are honking, this was mind-boggling. The only locals were wildlife, and boy, did they show up.

During my stroll, a wallaby bounced past, close enough to high-five. It froze, stared at me like I’d crashed its yoga class, then vanished into the bushes. Later, I spotted a Tasmanian devil—yes, *the* Taz—scampering near the lake, looking less like a cartoon and more like a caffeinated raccoon. “Slow down, mate, you’ll burn out!” I called, but it was too busy plotting world domination. Back at the house, Madhuri swore she saw a platypus doing laps in the lake, though Anish teased it was probably a log with ambition. We spent the day indoors, toggling between TV and gawking out the windows like we were in a wildlife safari with room service. The meadows around the lake were greener than a kiwi’s daydream, swaying like they were choreographed for a Bollywood number. The nearby national forest, part of the Central Plateau Conservation Area, was a tangle of eucalyptus and myrtle, with trails that whispered “adventure” but also “bring an umbrella, you numpty.”

The isolation was both magical and maddening. Need milk? Tough luck. Craving chai? Start praying to the lake gods. We joked that the wallabies might open a pop-up cafe if they sensed our caffeine withdrawal. “Wallaby’s Brew: One Leaf, Two Twigs, No Refunds,” Anish quipped, and we lost it.

**The Geography and Beauty of Brady’s Lake**

Brady’s Lake sits in the Central Highlands, a region that feels like it was designed by a poet with a side hustle in landscape architecture. Part of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area, it’s a hotspot for critters—platypuses, wallabies, devils, and birds that probably have their own folk band. The lake’s flanked by hills that pose like they’re on a magazine cover, with frost-dusted meadows that glitter like they’ve been sprinkled with fairy dust. Winter cloaks the area in a hush, with mist drifting over the lake like it’s auditioning for a gothic novel.

**The Return Journey**

On June 18, we hauled ourselves out of bed at 4 a.m., pre-sunrise, for the slog back to Hobart Airport. The darkness was thicker than my grandma’s dal, and Anish drove like he was in a video game called “Marsupial Mayhem.” The road was a full-on wildlife rave. Wallabies hopped across like they were late for a Black Friday sale, one nearly dive-bombing our hood before Anish swerved. “Mate, get a Fitbit and stay off the road!” I yelled. Koalas lounged in trees, their eyes glinting like they were judging our life choices. One looked so smug I swear it was clutching a tiny latte. Then came the owl, swooping low like it was delivering an urgent memo from Hogwarts. But the showstopper was a Tasmanian devil, darting across the road with the energy of a toddler on Red Bull. “Chill, Taz, it’s not a race!” Madhuri laughed, but we were all gripping our seats.

The Hobart radio station, now in late-night mode, played chill tunes like it was trying to lull the wildlife to sleep, with a DJ who sounded like he was one yawn from passing out. We’d pinned our hopes on Ouse’s roadside cafe for a coffee lifeline, but it was shut tighter than a roo’s pouch in a cyclone. “Bet the wallabies unionized and demanded a day off,” Anish groaned, as we nursed the car’s sad, lukewarm coffee dregs. The meadows, barely visible in the pre-dawn fog, teased their emerald glory like a burlesque act hiding behind a frosty curtain. As we neared Hobart, the sky softened into pinks and purples, making us forget our caffeine crisis—almost.

**Final Thoughts**

Our Brady’s Lake adventure was a side-splitting, fur-filled romp through Tasmania’s winter wonderland. The meadows were greener than a leprechaun’s wardrobe, the forest wilder than a rock concert mosh pit, and the wood fire cozier than a puppy pile. The road trip, with its chatty radio and acrobatic critters, felt like driving through a Pixar movie directed by David Attenborough. The “Hakuna Matata” house was our cozy bunker, even if we had to ration biscuits like we were stranded on a deserted island. The lack of a nearby coffee shop had us dreaming of wallaby baristas, but it only added to the trip’s quirky charm. Tasmania, you’re a frosty, furry masterpiece, and we’re already scheming our next wildlife-packed getaway—koalas, devils, and all.